Trouble was, they pulled shithead pranks like this. He didn't care that they tagged the Kicker Man all over the city—that was advertising of sorts. But you don't piss where you sleep.

    Problem was, the guy who did this probably wasn't one of the ones bunking here. And with all the various Kickers wandering in and out during the day, Hank would never be able to track him down.

    "Sorry about that."

    "Sorry isn't enough. The Septimus sigil is immensely important to the Order. We are an ancient brotherhood, and that sigil is far, far older. This will not be tolerated."

    "I'll take care of it."

    "That is not enough." Drexler's voice was calm, cool. Maybe too cool. "The Council has taken a step unprecedented in the history of the Order by opening its doors to nonmembers."

    "Why us?" Hank said. The question had been bugging him.

    Receiving only a cold look from Drexler, Hank went on.

    "I mean, the Septimus Lodge goes back, what, a couple hundred years?"

    "A couple of hundred? Mister Thompson, it goes back much, much further than that."

    "Okay, much further. So if in all that time you've never let in nonmembers, why the sudden change of heart? And why us? And you didn't just let us in, you invited us."

    "The local members received a directive."

    "Yeah? Where from?"

    "The worldwide High Council of the Seven. They rule the Ancient Septimus Fraternal Order. When they speak, the Lodges obey."

    "Don't think we're not grateful, we are. But what about the rest of the question: Why us?"

    "The Council doesn't explain its decisions."

    Hank sensed this guy knew more than he was saying. Lots more.

    "Well, Mister Drexler. Since the Council entrusts you with inspecting this place, I imagine you're wired in. You've gotta have some idea."

    A humorless smile played around Drexler's thin lips as he glanced at the Kicker Man graffito, then back to Hank.

    "It could be that they think you and your followers—"

    Hank wagged a finger. "Not 'followers.' That would make me their leader, and I'm not. Kickers recognize no leaders. We're all simply fellow Kickers."

    At least that was the line he made a point of pushing every chance he got: I'm not your leader. We're all just Kickers. He figured the more he denied it, the more he'd be identified in their heads as the leader he said he wasn't.

    "If you say so," Drexler said, obviously not buying it. "It could be that the Council recognizes a common bond between your Kickers and the Septimus order."

    "Which would be what?"

    Drexler shrugged. "Who is to say? The Council is wise and it keeps its own counsel."

    Yeah. Okay. Maybe they did tell him, maybe they didn't. But either way, he'd bet this guy had a pretty good idea of the why part of the question.

    "But be that as it may," Drexler intoned, pointing to the Kicker Man graffito, "their hospitality does not extend to this."

    Hank found himself eyeing Drexler's neck and thinking of the katana. He'd bet one good chop would send his head flying. Did he dare? He had a feeling he'd have to strike fast and hard and not miss. Because this Drexler guy did not look like someone he'd want to mess with.

    He shook off the thought and focused on the present.

    "I'll have one of the men clean it up. Then we'll track down the one who did this and make certain he never does anything like this again."

    Drexler brushed his hands together, as if dusting off dirt. "See to it immediately."

    As he walked away, Hank again envisioned the katana biting into his neck. A delightful sight.

    "Tell me again why that article was never published?" P. Frank Winslow said as they waited for their food.

    Jack had called him this morning, pretending to be the same Trenton Times reporter who had interviewed him last month. He needed to talk to Winslow and the writer seemed anxious to comply. They arranged to meet for breakfast in the same spot as last time: a bustling lower Second Avenue deli named Moishe's.

    Winslow's work had shocked Jack when he'd stumbled upon it. The plots of his novels Rakshasa! and Berzerk!—both based on dreams—were bizarrely similar to events in Jack's life. When Jack had interviewed him he'd mentioned other dreams his editor hadn't deemed novel-worthy that also seemed plucked from Jack's life.

    "My editor thought it was too blah," Jack said.

    Winslow reacted like a mother who'd just heard someone say her baby was ugly. "Blah? Jake Fixx is blah? What's he, nuts? How can a freakin' ex—Navy SEAL and former CIA black-ops specialist be blah?"

    Thirtyish, with a skinny bod, big nose, and thin face, Winslow was a far cry from the burly, brawny hero of his series.

    Jack shrugged. "Who can explain editors?"

    "I hear ya. Mine's a piece of work. Sounds like yours is too."

    Jack knew a couple of authors and a few wannabes. They all loved to bitch about editors. Jack played it up.

    "Guy's a clown. Doesn't know squat about good journalism. I fought for the article, but he wouldn't budge. Said I had to find a hook for it or forget about it."

    Winslow's hazel eyes stared at him over his coffee cup. "Hook? Isn't Jake himself a hook?"

    Jack shook his head. "I guess not. I mean, for me he is. I'm a big fan of the character. Your books are super."

    He saw Winslow swell with delight. Authors were so needy.

    "Yeah, well, I like him too. I—"

    "Here's your food, gents," said a cracked voice.

    Sally, their ancient, orange-haired, dowager-humped waitress had materialized tableside carrying their plates. Winslow had the same as last time: eggs over easy with corned beef hash; Jack had opted for the western omelet.

    As Winslow chopped up his runny eggs and mixed them into the hash, he said, "What kind of hook does he want?"

    "You don't think he'd actually tell me, do you? That would take some original thought on his part. But I do have an idea."

    Winslow looked up. "Like what?"

    "These dreams you base the books on. What if they're not dreams? What if your unconscious mind has somehow tapped into the life of a real Jake Fixx?"

    He took a bite of the yolky hash. "You're not telling me you think that's possible, are you?"

    "Course not. But that could be my hook: Who is the real Jake Fixx? or Is there a real Jake Fixx?"

    Winslow nodded. "Ooh, I like that."

    "I do too. But I'm going to have to sort of catalogue your Jake Fixx dreams, even the ones you don't use."

    "No problem."

    "Let's start with the latest." Here was what Jack had come for. "What's happening?"

    "Really weird. About this cruddy Japanese sword that everyone wants. I—" He stopped, staring at Jack's face. "What's wrong?"

    "Nothing." The idea of this guy looking over his shoulder via his dreams made him queasy. "Go on."

    "Well, I can't use it all crudded up, but I can clean it up, make it super shiny—maybe even make it glow a little—and super sharp. You know, sharp enough to cut through a rifle barrel."

    "Why not make it sing, too?"

    "Hmmm?"

    "Never mind."

    "And of course I'll have to add a back story where Jake took dueling lessons from a master samurai while he was in the CIA."

    "Of course." Fixx was an expert in everything. God forbid he'd actually have to learn something. "So how does the dream end?"

    "It hasn't yet. Like I told you before, I dream in chapters."

    "Well, has he got the sword yet?"